


Fleeting

by ioo



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reapers, Happy Ending, Human!Oikawa, M/M, Reaper!Ushi, Suicide mentions, There is death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 08:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11665164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ioo/pseuds/ioo
Summary: This time, Wakatoshi thinks back on the events of the days prior, on the mysterious human who could see him, and how he should probably stop thinking about it.The issue lies with the fact that he cannot.





	Fleeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thimble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/gifts).



> I'm really sorry that it took me this long to finish this ;;;  
> I initially started writing this for SASO br1 , but it turned into a monster of a fic that I didn't have the time to finish before the deadline.  
> I forgot how to write about halfway through this and then whenever I wrote it I felt like I was letting everyone (especially the recipient of this fic) down, so I just couldn't go on.  
> In general, this fic barely has a plot, and the quality massively drops in the middle, but I felt like if I kept agonizing over tiny details, I would never ever finish it. I do hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
> 
> Please do be careful with this, as it does contain a graphic death, and a moment of suicide discussion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is cold, and the snow falls over Sendai like it has every winter. His umbrella is the only shelter against the wind that he has, but he waits.

With baited breath, he waits.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_"love at first sight?" the angel scoffs at the notion. "impossible."_

_"but you knew?"_

_"of course i did. i knew the moment i first saw him."_

_"and what do you think of it?_

_"it is tragic, isn't it? love. always comes at the best of times, and the worst of times."_

_the young Reaper does not reply, and the angel turns back to the Earth, so clear and plain from where they sit, up in the stars._

_"you miss it, after a while."_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**恋の予感**

The trust in the inevitability of love, when you first meet someone. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is a lonely December morning, 1980, when the special mix caught between rain and snow has started falling over Sendai, that Wakatoshi meets Oikawa Tooru. Finding only brief respite from the cold under the cover of an Agency issued umbrella, black as the rest of his attire, wide enough to cover the expanse of his shoulders and the briefcase he carries with him everywhere he goes, Wakatoshi watches cars and buses alike leisurely make their way along the road. The hiss of their tires streaking through water is the only sound breaking through the early morning silence.

He waits for a particular someone, a Yamamoto Takeshi, to cross the road at an unfortunate time, just as predicted on the paper taped to his kitchen window, a strong reminder of what his job is meant to be, now that he has returned from the bright lights and loud music of the European 1920's. He briefly wonders whether he is on the right street, at the right time, and makes a note to inform his superiors that jumping him across timelines may not be the most efficient way to go about things. He's been severely disoriented for days.

The pendant at his neck pulses, warm against the skin of his clavicle, as if aware of its future meal, eager to get a taste of the first soul Wakatoshi has reaped in weeks. He decides to trust in it more than himself, and shifts his weight from foot to foot to alleviate the discomfort of wearing loafers in the snow.

He is jostled out of his thoughts by someone weaselling their way under his umbrella, the warmth of someone unmistakably alive and human emanating from beneath a heavy felt coat and pressing into his left arm. Wakatoshi can only stare as a pair of brown eyes meet his own, right above the bold line of a crimson scarf covering the lower half of the stranger's face.

"It's cold out here, isn't it?" the stranger asks, eyes crinkled at the sides in what Wakatoshi knows is a smile. His voice is muffled beneath the woollen material over his mouth, but Wakatoshi somehow hears him clearly. It seems to him as if the rest of the world had faded out, letting only this strange human's presence be seen and heard. No longer is he aware of the hiss of tires streaking through water and snow alike, or the warmth of his pendant against his chest, or the cold seeping through the material of his shoes. He only registers the sweet smell of the stranger's hair and the way his eyes seem to sparkle with the reflection of a thousand, perhaps even a million snowflakes.

"Winter's my favourite season, because I love the snow," the stranger goes on, voice taking on the air of a whine, high pitched and nasally, "but it makes driving around so dangerous. I get nervous just taking the bus, sometimes. You can feel the tires slipping on the road during turns, and that's just in the city."

Wakatoshi watches the stranger press closer to him with a shiver, feels an unfamiliar heat creep up his cheeks. It shoots through his chest, too, but like a bullet, at first. It's hot, and searing and painful, not enough to warrant a flinch, but enough to set alarms dimly ringing at the back of his mind. Wakatoshi looks away from him until it dulls into a throbbing consistent with the beat of this stranger's heart, not yet due to stop.

"You're not very talkative, are you?" There is a tinge of amusement in the stranger's voice. "Well that's fine. It's not like I expected friendly conversation from someone with such an impressive frown." 

He wiggles his fingers in front of Wakatoshi's face, for added effect, no doubt. They're long, slender, from what Wakatoshi manages to glimpse, before they disappear into his coat pockets once more. Wakatoshi barely manages a simple nod, taking in the way a funny little frown takes over the stranger's face when he does not offer a verbal response once again. He would like to, even if it is simply to blurt out something completely inappropriate, such as _you're beautiful_ or _your voice is reminiscent of the angel choirs we have, back at the Agency_ , or _please step closer, you're warm, and I haven't felt this way in centuries, or ever, actually_  but he can barely process the fact that this stranger, this human, is talking to him, is able to see him, is aware of his presence. 

The words _impossible_ , and _miraculous_ and _unfathomable_ circle around his mind, round and round and up and down like the horses on the carousel rides he's fond of watching, when death isn't the only thing he can think about. 

He comes to the conclusion that opening his mouth may undermine him, next to this incredible stranger. Instead, he simply shifts his grip on the umbrella from his right to his left hand, and attempts to shelter his impromptu companion better from the winter's downpour. 

They remain as such, sides pressed together and cheeks red, Wakatoshi feeling the nervous flutter of a heart he has never had. The stranger hums to himself, filling silence with the notes of a sonata Wakatoshi dimly recognises. He pulls out his phone, showing off his bandaged pointer and middle fingers, and Wakatoshi cannot help but watch his screen as he taps a message to someone under the nickname of _Iwa-chan_ , about being late and the horrendous weather conditions, and please print the score for me! 

"Ah, there's my bus," the stranger breathes, snapping Wakatoshi out of his trance. He watches the vehicle pull up and stop with a screech, before the doors hiss open and the stranger steps out of Wakatoshi's space, leaving behind him a trail of honeyed scent and warmth that Wakatoshi already misses. 

"I'll see you around, stranger!" he calls out over his shoulder, giving him a subtle wave. Wakatoshi watches him go, and the last thing he sees before the bus door close is the flash of a crimson scarf, a final droplet of colour in Wakatoshi's otherwise barren world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is a cafe, in the backstreets of Sendai's central shopping area, that acts as an information centre for members of the Agency. Reapers and humans alike frequent the shop, the latter group entirely unaware of the organisation in charge of the dainty little cafe that has so often been named a prime date spot for people in budding relationships. Wakatoshi idly sits at one of the tables, a coffee steaming in front of him and a few papers spread out beneath his fingers. Though he appears as though he is watching the people meandering the streets outside, his gaze is fixed on nothing. He reflects, as he always does in the early hours of the evening while waiting for Tendou to take possession of the collected souls. This time, he thinks back on the events of the days prior, on the human who could see him and how he should probably stop thinking about him. 

The issue lies with the fact that he cannot.

There hasn't been a single minute Wakatoshi has been able to spend since that day when he is able to think about something other than the stranger with the beautiful brown eyes and red scarf.

It was written, deep within the Reaping manuals he spent so many days agonising over, in the anomalies section, under the tab outliers and other dangers, that there would be few humans with minds open enough to be able to see Reapers, to be aware of their presence and interact with them. 

It should be standing out to Wakatoshi, that these kinds of humans are classified under the list of things that are dangerous to Reapers. Emotions are a liability in a job that requires an absolute level-head, and-

"The other people around here can't see you, can they?" 

Wakatoshi looks up into those brown eyes once more, shocked to find the same pink cheeks and red scarf, in a place such as this. Though this time, the stranger's outfit is less bundled, and the scarf is loosely wrapped around his shoulders, in the warmth and comfort of this small coffee shop, rather than tightly wound around his face. He fits in with the rustic tones, Wakatoshi thinks, with his brown cardigan and black slacks, square-rimmed glasses and low voice. A twinkle of amusement shines in the stranger's eyes, reminiscent of the first time they met.

"Oikawa Tooru," the man introduces himself, extending a hand for Wakatoshi to shake. Wakatoshi hesitantly wraps his own fingers around Oikawa's, flinching at the warmth against his skin, unfamiliar yet entirely welcome, and he isn't quite sure what surprises him more. 

"Ushijima," he replies, "Wakatoshi."

"Well, Ushiwaka-chan," Wakatoshi wrinkles his nose at the nickname, but does not argue against it, "what brings a ghost to our dear Sendai?"

"I am not a ghost."

Oikawa's eyebrow rises. "Is that so? What are you then?"

It is difficult to describe what he does to someone who has a limited amount of time on this planet, in this life. "I am a Reaper," he settles for answering. It is short, concise, to the point. Oikawa's head tilts, and his jaw works, as if he were trying to get a taste of the word 'Reaper' for himself. He must be satisfied, because he grins down at Wakatoshi, before he reaches for Wakatoshi's mug, curling his fingers around it and pulling it back toward him. 

"Tell me," he says, "does this cup really exist?"

"Of course. It exists for me."

"But it shouldn't for me."

"No."

"I must look like a real idiot, talking to a coffee table," Oikawa quips, before taking a sip of Wakatoshi's coffee. There is a blaze in his eyes, peeking over the rim of his cup, and it digs into his chest, searing hot like the first time they met. Wakatoshi raises a hand, grimacing, and rubs the sore spot over his resting heart, hoping to alleviate the discomfort, if only for a little while. When Oikawa pulls the cup away from his face, giving him an expectant look, he realises he hadn't replied.  

"Why are you talking to me, then?" he settles for retorting. He does not want Oikawa ruining his reputation by talking to someone who doesn't exist. He seems much too good for that. 

Oikawa recoils at that, smile twisting in a way that makes it seem strange, like it is caught between a grin and a frown, and he places the mug back down on the table with enough force to jostle the papers atop it. 

"I wanted to make sure I wasn't crazy, I suppose. Or perhaps, that I am. I still have to figure it out." Oikawa's tone is flippant, and he waves a dismissive hand in Wakatoshi's direction, despite the weight of his words. "Always happens to artists, doesn't it? Something's wrong with them."

Open minds, Wakatoshi wants to explain. Not sick, not insane. You must simply be accepting of what goes against the mundane. 

"Anyway," he says, smile shifting from awkward to sharp in the blink of an eye, "it's quite clear you don't want me here, so I'll be taking my leave."

He bows down in a small flourish before Wakatoshi can even argue against his statement, and makes his way out of the shop, not another word spoken into the space between them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next time Wakatoshi catches a glimpse of Oikawa Tooru, it is not in the flesh. He patiently sits at a bus stop, on his way to collect the souls that have gathered at the Sendai City Hospital before they become a problem. A bus headed in a different direction than his destination slows to a stop before him, and Wakatoshi finds himself staring into slightly blurred and pixelated brown eyes, now so familiar despite being that of a total stranger's. 

The doors of the bus open, distorting the image and preventing Wakatoshi to read the advertisement in its entirety. People begin filing out, two by twos and groups of high school students headed to the city centre for a well-deserved rest.

When the doors slide closed, and Oikawa's picture comes together once again, Wakatoshi is intently staring into Oikawa's eyes, eager to find out what could possibly be said under his smiling face.

_Live concerto_ , the advertisement reads, and Wakatoshi leans forward in an attempt to catch the rest of the text along the bus, _featuring rising star Oikawa Tooru,_ _March 19th to March 26th_. 

Despite the alarms ringing so clearly in his head, and Tendou's voice reminding him that getting involved with these humans can be dangerous, Wakatoshi-kun, take care of yourself, Wakatoshi makes a mental note to keep one of those days free, if only to see this human once again. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 21st is the day Wakatoshi manages to find enough time in his packed schedule to attend Oikawa's concert. He has never been a fan of music, has barely managed to keep up with the modern and older music, never quite knowing what is and isn't popular in the timelines he's travelled to for work. The music itself is nothing special to him, though he has enough ear to recognise the magnitude of talent pouring from each individual musician in the group, but all that pales in comparison to Oikawa. 

Wakatoshi cannot see him very well, being so far away from the stage, but he catches the graceful movements, and the way that, no matter whether Oikawa plays lead or accompaniment, his notes blend so perfectly with the rest of the instruments, lifting the music up into the skies and taking their audience along for a trip into a world unseen.

He waits outside of the music hall, late into the night when the show is over, holding up the same umbrella he did when they first met. He carefully watches the people pouring out of the building, spirits in high places and vibrating with excitement, entirely undeterred by the rain. He thinks about the way Oikawa is, in a way, responsible for this level of happiness and energy, and feels a certain amount of pride, that Oikawa is magical not in a single way, but in multiple. 

"Were you waiting for me?" he hears, and turns around to find Oikawa Tooru, standing beneath the downpour with little if no worry for his health. His clean-pressed shirt clings to the angle of his shoulders, to his chest, and Wakatoshi's mouth goes a little dry at the sight. 

"I was," he confesses, because there is no use lying to someone who sees through different worlds. 

"I saw you, in the audience," Oikawa continues, taking a few steps forward, until he stands but a meter away from Wakatoshi. He isn't weaselling himself beneath Wakatoshi's umbrella, keeping his safe distance this time. If Wakatoshi knew any better, he'd say it is as much to protect himself as it is to protect Wakatoshi. 

"You couldn't have seen me," he says, frowning, "it would have been very hard to with the glare of the stage lights and how far away I was standing from you."

Oikawa rolls his eyes, hands moving to rest on his hips. "Fine. I didn't see you, but I felt you. You have that, overwhelming, annoying, holier-than-thou aura, you know?"

His words sting a little. "Forgive me, I did not realise I annoyed you."

Oikawa's mouth drops open, shock written along his every feature, before he slaps a hand over his mouth and laughs. Wakatoshi simply stands there, watching as Oikawa clutches his abdomen and giggles into the cup of his palm. 

"You're ridiculous," he wheezes, once he's able to breathe properly again, "that's not what you should've focused on at all. I say mean things all the time. Iwa-chan says it's when I get nervous, or cornered. Don't take me too seriously, yeah?"

Wakatoshi nods. He's beginning to think that talking to Oikawa may be more dangerous than he expected, considering his lack of tact and Oikawa's tendency to dance around the things he really wants to say. The thought of Oikawa being nervous around him is endearing, however, and the sting quickly fades out, giving way for a subtle, pleasant warmth blooming in his chest.

"Why are you here?" Oikawa finally asks.

"I wanted to tell you that you were wrong, back in the cafe."

"Is that so?"

Wakatoshi steps forward, until he has to tip back his umbrella to prevent it from hitting Oikawa in the face. "I did want you around. Do. Want you."

Oikawa's response is to smile, a grin so bright it is blinding, pulling at Wakatoshi's heart, and he follows, until he's close enough to cover Oikawa from the rain. 

"Please do not leave," he says.

Oikawa ducks his head, suddenly sheepish. Taking a single step forward, he closes the distance between them, their noses so close to touching Wakatoshi can feel each breath that Oikawa takes, can hear the tempo of his heart.  

"I won't this time." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So this isn't a liminal space thing?" Oikawa asks, pouring whisky into two tumblers. "I won't just be able to see you in between places? Somewhere special?" 

He picks up one of the glasses, and Wakatoshi watches his fingers curl around it, watches his thumb trace one of the sharp ridges. They're red, he notes. Red, and his nails are bitten to stubs, and though Oikawa Tooru's person is breathtaking, his fingers are far from beautiful. They reveal a nervous nature that Wakatoshi hasn't been able to read off Oikawa at all. Perturbed, he lifts his gaze, only to be met with Oikawa's unreadable expression.

Wakatoshi can't tell if the curl of his lips means that he is joking, though he attempts to reply honestly nonetheless. 

"It is not. Some humans are simply able to see what they should not."

"Incredible," Oikawa murmurs, taking a sip of his drink. His eyes never leave Wakatoshi, not even when he himself looks away, intimidated, almost scared by the intensity behind Oikawa's gaze. When he looks back, Oikawa has moved on, making his way to the living room and sitting himself down on the couch. 

"Well?" he calls out, patting the space next to him, feigning urgency. "What are you waiting for?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The promise of love, Wakatoshi reflects, is something he hadn't understood until he'd met eyes with Oikawa, on that rainy morning. Wakatoshi does not spot a difference in the way his heart, though no longer needed, jumps in his chest every time Oikawa walks through the doors to their regular cafe. He finds himself lingering around book stores, eyeing the numerous novels on romance, on love, sifting through pages and pages of horribly cliche and mind numbing fiction, trying to find something eloquent enough to explain how he feels in Oikawa's presence. 

It is almost impossible, he finds. Though the descriptions match what he feels, that the world fades out in comparison to Oikawa's light, that his heart wedges itself in his throat whenever Oikawa smiles, the stories feel almost superficial, timed, controlled. He feels nothing of the sort, when it comes to Oikawa.

There is no fall, Wakatoshi concludes, after reading his third romance book series, shutting the thirteenth volume with a final snap. There were no moments when he thought to himself, _perhaps I am in love,_ for it was never a question. His reaction to Oikawa appears to be a natural state of things, as if the legendary red string of fate had tied them both together, for as long as Wakatoshi has existed, for as long as Oikawa has had breath in his lungs, and for as long as he will. 

Wakatoshi can't help the way his arms tighten around Oikawa's frame as the prospect of Oikawa's death washes over him. 

It's so easy to forget, when Oikawa himself looks and feels as timeless as Wakatoshi is.

Oikawa shifts, pressing himself further into Wakatoshi's embrace, and stretches his legs over the couch's arm rest.

"You're thinking too hard," he says, though his gaze is still entirely fixed on his phone. A message from his manager, Wakatoshi deduces, by the frown that's clouded over Oikawa's face. He doesn't peek over Oikawa's shoulder to check, but he wishes he would look away from his phone for just a moment. The stress of his job seems a little too strong, at the moment. Tooru begs to differ, and has made that opinion very clear to him, over and over and over. A rising star, after all, needs to burn in order to shine.

The historically inaccurate movie they've been watching drones on in the background, the sound of swords clashing and blood spilling a stark contrast to the romantic thought running through Wakatoshi's head. 

"Perhaps," he replies, resisting the urge to ask Oikawa how he can so easily read him, without even looking in his direction. It is a little scary, perhaps even more, perhaps closer to terrifying, just how natural it feels, despite the circumstances. 

"What's got you so captivated?" Oikawa presses his fingers into Wakatoshi's thigh, an accompaniment to the warning that follows. "If it's another round of criticisms about my taste in films, I'm kicking you out of my apartment."

"I was thinking of you."

Oikawa stiffens in his arms, surprise melting the irritation off his face. A spot of pink floods his cheeks, and Wakatoshi resists the urge to press his lips to the curve of a red ear. He does feel grateful for the effect his honesty has on Oikawa, thankful for the distraction from his life, from his rising success, from his manager and her thousand requests. 

"You're so blunt, Ushiwaka," Oikawa retorts, lifting a hand to fiddle with Wakatoshi's fingers. "Like a hammer."

Wakatoshi nuzzles the back of Oikawa's neck. 

"I apologise if it makes you uncomfortable."

"No," Oikawa says, too quickly to be as nonchalant as he tries to make it seem, "I like it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hidden between the scattered ruins of a temple and the massacred corpses of a family whose name he does not even know, Wakatoshi misses mid-1980's Tokyo. He misses the warmth of Oikawa's hand in his, misses the fragile, post-war peace, misses the protests and humans rights movements. He resents the Agency for sending him away, in the prime of his relationship with Oikawa, though he was all too aware that it was bound to happen. 

The agency doesn't take too kindly to the humans who can see Reapers.

He catches yet another wandering soul, though it does not struggle like the previous one he managed to get his hands on. He hushes it, and lets his pendant do the rest of the work.

He misses Oikawa's smile, and the way it seems to be able to bring light into a world that has long been bland, grey, and devoid of life. 

One could potentially argue that a Reaper's life has no business being colourful, considering the grim nature of their job, but Wakatoshi has little care for stereotypes. He thinks back to the days when leading the souls through limbo, heaven and hell, was less of a corporate affair, and more out of care for those recently deceased. He preferred those times, though he has always been able to fulfill his tasks, when the relationship between human and Reaper was a lot more organic than it is now. It was easier to collect souls when they were calm, when they knew what was happening to them. It was easier to guide them along a gentle path, when they were ready to face what little remained of their fates.

He no longer has the time to calm the soul in his grip, or those gathered in his suitcases. He doesn't get to explain anything to them, before he has to move on to another, and another, because the Agency requires numbers, and from the way his pendant heats up, vibrates, Wakatoshi knows the wistful sentiment is shared. 

Oikawa is the only part of his life that brings warmth to his cold heart.

He glances at his watch, switches the time back to Oikawa's Tokyo, and purses his lips at the bold 1987 that follows. Though to Wakatoshi it has only been a few days, it has already been two years for Oikawa, since he last saw Wakatoshi. 

He wonders if he feels abandoned, or if he understands. He wonders whether he's moved on, whether he's fallen in love, whether he's a famous pianist, by now, whether people gather outside his concerts for autographs, whether girls and boys alike swoon over his smile, like Wakatoshi does.

Wakatoshi wishes he was sent somewhere more pleasant. He's sure Oikawa would enjoy a memento from 1920's Paris. Another soul whizzes past him, followed by a chorus of blades clashing, of agonized screams, and he sighs, inwardly cursing the person who placed him here. 

For the first time in his endless life, he finds himself wishing he was doing something other than work. 

For the first time in his endless life, he has found something more important than his task.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wakatoshi, despite being wholly unaffected by most human conditions, despises the heat. The sudden change between winter in Kamakura period Japan and the beginning of summer in 1985 Tokyo was almost too much for him to bear.

The mandatory clothing that Agency Reapers are expected to wear includes a heavy trench coat, no matter the temperatures, and Wakatoshi fans himself using his collar, the heat almost unbearable despite his location, tucked away in the cool interior of the cafe.

He finds himself becoming antsy, bouncing his leg with an almost uncharacteristic kind of impatience, waiting for Tendou to make his appearance, so that he may submit his report, his souls, and go on to meet Oikawa, to see him after what he knows has been 5 human years without any contact. He's planned everything he wants to say, his apologies, his explanations, but he fears it may not be enough. He knows how long 5 years can be, to a human being. 

He hopes Oikawa will forgive him.

He watches as humans and Reapers alike make their way through the doors, short and tall, blonde and brown haired and black haired, but he does not spot the bright red spot that usually announced Tendou's presence. He checks his watch for the third time in the past 2 minutes, and heaves a sigh. Tendou is late, which is not unusual, all things considered, but Wakatoshi finds himself becoming even more impatient on this particular day. 

He wants to see Oikawa.

"You look different, Wakatoshi-kun," Tendou points out, his voice snapping Wakatoshi out of his thoughts. He sets his coffee down on the table with a soft _clink_ and sinks into the chair opposite him. Wakatoshi startles at the prospect that he was so engrossed in his own ideas that he completely missed Tendou's presence in the crowd of people around him. "In fact, you look almost troubled. Is something the matter? You didn't fail your assignment, did you?"

Tendou's words strike Wakatoshi's core. He does not remember looking any different, when he spotted his reflection in the glass windows of the coffee shop, but perhaps he hadn't looked close enough. He certainly feels different, almost empty, without Oikawa by his side. It would not surprise him that his appearance could have changed as well.

In complete contrast to how Wakatoshi feels, Tendou looks clean. The way he is properly wearing his suit, cut perfectly at the waist and shoulders, and the twist to his mouth and brow makes him look almost too serious, much more so than Wakatoshi has ever seen him. He's used to Tendou sloppily wearing his uniform, tie askew and jacket shed somewhere during the day. He supposes a job as important as carrying the souls of war victims must be respected. 

Tendou tilts forward, leaning his elbows on the table, and fixes Wakatoshi with a worried stare. 

"I have not failed," Wakatoshi assures him, grateful for his friend's concern. "I am simply looking forward to seeing someone after our meeting."

Tendou leans back, cheshire-like grin slicing his face. 

"Ah, _love_."

Wakatoshi's nose involuntarily scrunches at Tendou's feigned wistfulness, lips curving down into a frown. He knows Tendou has never experienced what he has, that Tendou is a better Reaper, in that particular category, but he wonders whether or not the prospect of falling in love is as outlandish as everyone around him makes it seem. 

"Is that so surprising?" 

Tendou tilts his head to the side, long neck pulled taught by the movement, and studies Wakatoshi. Though his eyes move, he does not blink. From an outsider's perspective, Wakatoshi knows that Tendou is a scary looking individual, but he is used to the scrutiny that accompanies Tendou's friendship. He has grown to appreciate it. 

"I suppose not," Tendou finally admits. "There's always been something strange about you, Wakatoshi-kun. Perhaps being tied to a human was the cause of it all~!" 

Though his voice is in a lilted sing-song, Wakatoshi knows to recognise when Tendou speaks his own knowledge, from a pool of wisdom Wakatoshi suspects is almost endless. Tendou has the ability to see more than most, after all. _Instinct_ is what he calls it, and it is a skill incredibly useful to those in their profession. 

Wakatoshi nods, comforted by his friend's words, turns back to his coffee, and begins his usual report. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Later that evening, when he finishes handing all the souls over to Tendou and makes his way over to Oikawa's residence, he finds himself grateful for Oikawa's need for consistency. Though it was an aspect of Oikawa that was hard to handle when they were first discovering each other, Wakatoshi stumbling upon the information like an animal unwittingly stepping into a hunter's trap, it is now a relief. Oikawa has always organised his life in patterns. 

His address hasn't changed, his flat hasn't changed, not even the small card with his name on it, taped onto his mailbox, is the same as it was 5 years ago. 

He rings the doorbell, and hopes that Oikawa himself won't have changed much, won't have built enough resentment toward him for suddenly disappearing to make a wall between the both of them. 

When Oikawa answers the doorbell, Wakatoshi's heart drops to his stomach. 

"...Oikawa?" he calls out, voice barely above a whisper, but Oikawa flinches at the sound of it nonetheless. 

"Ushiwaka?"

The person standing before him is a shadow of the Oikawa Tooru that Wakatoshi remembers. His eyes are sunken, devoid of their usual shine, and circled by deep purple bags. He's lost weight, Wakatoshi dimly notes, eyes settling on the collar of his sweater, the way it hangs over his shoulder, the protrusion of his bones beneath pale skin almost grotesque. He sways on the spot, eyeing Wakatoshi with red rimmed eyes. Wakatoshi cannot tell if the tint is due to lack of sleep, or because he's been crying. He does not like either option.

He reaches forward, the movement slow and hesitant, though Oikawa pulls back the moment he notices his intention, a snarl curling his (pale, cracked, bloodied) lips over sharp teeth.

"Don't touch me," he snaps, though it lacks the conviction, the bite that Wakatoshi remembers, and he finds that the words aren't the cause of the burn in his chest. He wonders how this happened, how the people around Oikawa have not intervened, how he managed to spiral down a hole this bad.

_This is what fame does to people, Ushiwaka-chan,_ he remembers Oikawa telling him once, when the news covered a large American celebrity's drug overdose, photos of before and after flashing on the screen.  _It ruins them. Turns them into husks._

Wakatoshi remembers the fear in Oikawa's eyes, when he'd hastily reached for the controller and shut the TV off. 

_You won't let that happen to me, will you?_   

_Never._

"I'm sorry," he settles for saying. It is the only thing that comes to mind. _I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I didn't keep my promise_. "I was called to an assignment in the Kamakura era. I couldn't tell you beforehand."

Oikawa looks away from him, gaze boring into the doorframe. Wakatoshi half expects a hole to burn through it, with the intensity of his glare, and finds himself grateful that it's not aimed at him, lest he end up burning up himself, from shame, or guilt, or an unhealthy mix of both.

"I came back as soon as I could," Wakatoshi continues, almost desperate for a reaction, whether relief or anger, as long as it makes Oikawa look more alive than he does at the moment. "I missed you. I so desperately missed you, Oikawa."

He lifts a hand, gauges Oikawa's reaction. When Oikawa does not flinch, though he does turn away, Wakatoshi takes the liberty to softly runs his fingers along Oikawa's sunken cheek. Oikawa's shoulders drop, and so does his angry facade, brow smoothing into empty neutrality, like he's retreated inside himself, all efforts focused on keeping the storm inside of him under control. 

"I missed you too," he whispers, and Wakatoshi should feel happy, perhaps even elated, because he hasn't been forgotten, Oikawa, the love of his life, hasn't moved on, but the defeated slump of Oikawa's back makes him feel something entirely different. Oikawa pushes himself off the door frame, away from Wakatoshi's touch, and robotically makes his way up the stairs, to his apartment. 

_What happened to you?_ Wakatoshi wants to ask, silently following in Oikawa's footsteps. He does not, however, for fear of breaking the fragile peace that he's managed to weave back together so hastily. He knows there's still a lot of loose strings, a few holes that he needs to patch up, but first, he needs to understand. He needs to know where he stands.

Oikawa does not close the door to his flat, and Wakatoshi steps inside, clicking it shut behind him.

The sight of Oikawa's apartment tears Wakatoshi's heart in two. If not because of the numerous empty bottles littering the floor, then because of Oikawa, already slumped over the counter and nursing what appears to be his third glass of whisky, a lit cigarette poised between two slender fingers. He takes a hefty gulp of his drink, before he turns his sullen gaze to Wakatoshi, who remains frozen by his front door. 

"What are you doing all the way out there?" he asks, and he gestures for Wakatoshi to come closer, the glowing tip of the cigarette flashing like a warning sign. His lips curl in a crooked, bitter smile. "Am I that repulsive, Ushiwaka?"

As everything in their relationship dictates, Wakatoshi obeys the command. He steps forward, until he stands close enough to place a hand on Oikawa's cheek. 

"You could never be repulsive, Oikawa," he murmurs, dipping down to press his lips to Oikawa's in a chaste kiss. He pours the last 5 years of his emotions, of his thoughts, into the contact, hoping even 1 percent of it all gets across to him. 

It does not. Oikawa pulls away, eyes closed, as if he believed that he could shut reality out, if he didn't spare a single glance at it. He keeps his eyes closed, even as he pushes the glass of whisky away in favour of wrapping an arm around Wakatoshi's shoulders, pulling him close enough to feel, to hear the beat of his heart. 

"Of course not," he snaps, voice low despite the fire burning in his tone. His lips brush over Wakatoshi's skin with every word. "Oikawa can't be disgusting. He's beautiful, talented,  _famous,_ " he spits out the last word like a poison. "He's a perfect bachelor, with a dazzling smile and tons of fangirls and a way with the piano. He doesn't dress in winnie the pooh pajamas, and he doesn't think aliens are real, because that's juvenile. He isn't immature, he's not petty, he doesn't drink sodas at three in the morning, because he knows that  _some_ paparazzi will spot him at the conbini and make a big deal out of it," he hiccups, and Wakatoshi notes with horror that he's begun crying again, "he's flawless."

Wakatoshi remains silent, reaching up to wipe at Oikawa's cheeks. He pulls away, to truly take in the sight of his lover. It hurts, deeper than he could ever have imagined, to see someone he has come to love so much under so much pressure, in so much pain. It hurts,  _hurts_ to watch the tears drip from Oikawa's eyes, down his cheeks and gather at his chin, like he hasn't let himself cry in years.

"But Tooru," Oikawa continues weakly, the words pouring from his mouth like a torrent of things held back for too long. "Tooru is scared. Tooru isn't perfect, and sometimes he snorts when he laughs. He talks to himself a lot, because sometimes only he understands himself, because his favourite person doesn't even really exist." The words pouring from his mouth dig into Wakatoshi's chest like a well placed knife, pain bleeding from the wound with every word. "Sometimes Tooru doesn't want to smile, sometimes he finds the fangirls annoying, and sometimes he binge watches American medical dramas to pass the time, to forget that he is real, because Tooru isn't Oikawa, not anymore." 

The silence between them weighs heavy on Wakatoshi's chest. He does not need to breathe, but finds it difficult nonetheless. 

"I don't want to be Tooru anymore," Oikawa whispers. "I don't want to be Oikawa either."

"Oikawa..."

"Take me away, won't you?" Oikawa begs, head lolling back on his shoulder. His grin is much too bitter to taste sweet against Wakatoshi's mouth. "I want to leave, Wakatoshi."

"I can't," Wakatoshi whispers weakly, a fleeting sentence blown away by the current of Oikawa's sadness, a raging river ravaging the small space between them. "It is not your time yet."

"I want it to be," Oikawa confesses, 5 years worth of emotion turning those few, innocent words into a tidal wave, crashing against Wakatoshi, throwing him off balance no matter the effort he makes to stay upright. He tucks his head into the crook of Wakatoshi's neck. "I want to go to sleep one day and not wake up. One day soon."

He crushes the butt of his cigarette against the marble counter, and drops it there, watches the light fade from it, watches the smoke drift away. "Just like that," he whispers, and Wakatoshi finds that he can hear the cracks forming in his heart. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Wakatoshi?"

"What is it?"

"Do you love me?"

"I do."

"Can you call me Tooru, then?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_"Yes."_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is the 13th of July, 1985, when Oikawa Tooru's name shows up on the roster. Wakatoshi glosses over the characters that make up his name once, twice, three times, because perhaps if he reads it enough, it will not be real. He'd expected Tooru's life to last for another decade, maybe more, hopefully more. He reads the cause of death, lips curling into a snarl at the bright red ACCIDENT painted over Tooru's file. _They're doing this on purpose, aren't they?_ is the first thought to cross his mind, hatred and anger both rearing their heads at the prospect of the Agency being responsible for such a tragic end to someone so incredible. 

But he knows that sits in the rule books. Not all humans are meant to shine this brightly, in fact, barely any should. Oikawa Tooru is a stain on the Agency's otherwise perfect canvas, and needs to be cleaned out, turned into something they can use. 

Wakatoshi drops the papers, unable to read on. He hates the agency, he thinks. He hates them for making him do this, despite that he knows these are the rules, again with the rules, that a Reaper involved with a human must always, always collect their soul. A punishment for those who have let their emotions get the best of them, for those who have cost the Agency time and resources, no matter the reason.

He resents himself, for letting a still heart take over his brain. He resents himself, for ignoring the advice of those who have already been through this, because his human must go, Oikawa Tooru must leave, and he may never see him again. He resents himself, for being unable to save Oikawa from a tragic fate.

_He could very well turn into an angel_ , he remembers Tendou's words, all the way when he'd first come back from the first mongol invasion, and spoken of his worries, of Tooru's wish for death,  _or somethin' like that anyway. S'what happens to tragic deaths, isn't it? If they're good enough to see us. Eh, I forget._

Wakatoshi clings to that last hope, grasps it tight within his fist and does not let it go, not even as he readies his pendant, his briefcase, and sets out to witness the death of the only person he's ever loved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He almost arrives late. After frantically running down streets, missing two buses, and losing himself in the crowds, Wakatoshi finds a circle of people gathered around one person, laid out in the middle of the road, bloodied and broken, the victim of a hit and run.

He was prepared for this, has been since the beginning, but he cannot stop his hands from shaking as he kneels next to Oikawa. 

"Tooru," he whispers, the first utterance of a name he will never hear, never speak again. The sound of his voice seems to breathe an inkling of life back into Tooru's lungs, and he manages to focus, albeit blearily, on the sight of Wakatoshi's face. Blood drips from the side of his mouth, and he struggles to speak. Wakatoshi can feel himself smiling, a defence mechanism, perhaps, a form of armour against the onslaught of pain the sight before him brings.

"You will see me again," he whispers, soft as a feather, and caresses Oikawa's cheek with a touch just as light. It's as much a reassurance for himself as it is for Tooru, even as more blood bubbles over his lips. 

"Waka-"

Wakatoshi shushes him, pressing a finger to those too-red lips. Warmth drips down his hand and along the angle of his wrist, but Wakatoshi ignores it in favour of dipping down, pressing his lips to Oikawa's own, feeling Oikawa Tooru's life leave him, bit by bit.

"I will find you again," he whispers, pressing his lips to Tooru's once more, and again, and again until Tooru's lashes flutter, and his eyes fall shut for the last time, his final words lost to a myriad of life-draining kisses.

"Oikawa!" Wakatoshi hears, the strained, terrified scream of an Iwaizumi Hajime, bolting across the street and kneeling at his friend's side, right opposite of Wakatoshi's own seated spot. "Oikawa! No, no, you can't do this to me."

Wakatoshi watches the tears gather, and fall, watches the face of a broken man lose its colour, and the broken body of a man too bright lose the light inside of it. He catches Oikawa's soul before it can make its way into the air, and stores it safely, tucked against his heart, against where it should be, against where Oikawa will remain, forever. 

He does not follow Oikawa Tooru's body to the hospital, simply watches the back of the ambulance as it drives away, a chorus of _i'm sorry'_ s and _I should've been here earlier_ , words pouring from Iwaizumi's lips, the only accompaniment to the empty feeling opening right under where his stomach lies. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_"it simply wasn't meant to be," the angel whispers, a wistful release of a breath pushing his words much farther than he meant for them to, far enough for the young Reaper to hear._

_"he still waits for you," the young one says, gesturing to the world below, where a certain Reaper waits on the side of a road, finding brief respite from the rain beneath the black cover of an Agency issued umbrella. "every day, he waits in the hope that you will show up."_

_the angel eyes the Reaper with wide eyes, wings fluttering behind his back, restless to take off, to join whom he was forever meant to be with, despite his brain's hesitance._

_"i don't understand," he whispers. "i thought we couldn't-"_

_the young Reaper grins, smile such a bright contrast to the reality of his situation, to the colour of his clothes. "he's broken every rule to be with you. i don't see why you couldn't."_

_the angel lets a tiny smile flit across his face, tentative and shy and excited all at once. he presses his fingers to his lips._

_"i suppose..." he says. "i suppose you're right."_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**物の哀れ**

To appreciate the fleeting beauty of living things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is a lonely December morning when Wakatoshi once again finds himself in the place where he's met Oikawa Tooru, all these years ago. The city has changed, the people have changed, and he finds himself waiting for a Yamamoto Chiaki to cross the road at an unfortunate time. His pendant glows at the prospect of collection, and he raises a hand to feel the heat emanating from it. 

It's not as warm as Oikawa was, but it is a brief respite from his bland and cold world. 

He finds himself jostled out of his own thoughts when someone weasels their way under his umbrella, sweet honey scent emanating from their hair. 

Wakatoshi almost drops his suitcase, turning to take in the sight of this stranger, now invisible to the rest of the world, much like he is. Oikawa's smile hasn't changed, not in all these years, and Wakatoshi barely has the time to register the wings behind him before he is pulled into a small kiss. Oikawa's breath brushes his skin, warm, so warm, and he feels his own lips curl into a smile. Oikawa reaches down to tangle their fingers together, before he looks back out at the street, at the unfortunate accident about to unfold.

"It's cold out here, isn't it?" 

**Author's Note:**

> and they lived happily ever after


End file.
